


Roots

by Bluestocking79



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestocking79/pseuds/Bluestocking79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard's very favourite shade of brown is rarely seen, and has no name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roots

It's not a showy colour; he'll give you that. 

Brown doesn't pull focus, no sir—it's a modest, solid colour, a sophisticated, discerning choice—but it's anything but dull and uniform. It's subtle, yet complex—like good cheese, like Howard himself—and its varieties are almost endless. Howard appreciates this and, like the connoisseur he is, recognises every distinct gradation: nutmeg, walnut, mocha, mahogany, umber, sienna.

But Howard's very favourite shade of brown has no name. It's a rare variation that only he can appreciate, and then only in the privacy of his own thoughts. Words—even his own profound, deathless poetry—could only cheapen it.

He spots it every eight weeks or so, when the harsh, heavy black of Vince's hair dye has largely faded, leaving behind something warmer, softer, gentler. Like Vince, Howard thinks to himself, like the Vince only _Howard_ really knows, his essential sweetness shining out through all attempts to smother it, style it, mask it, his lighter, mouse-brown roots giving the lie to all his outer claims of dark, detached coolness.

For a few short, sweet weeks, Howard savours every flash of brown, cataloguing each instance with the care he takes with each precious collection he maintains: fluffed up and abruptly smoothed down by a nervous hand, wild and sleep-tousled and bent over a bowl of Coco Pops, gleaming in the sunlight as Vince strolls through the door of the shop (late, as usual), plastered to his neck and grinning face with sweat and juice after a Satsuma fight.

It never lasts for long enough, because Vince will inevitably catch sight of himself in some reflective surface and squawk about roots and regrowth and the occasional embarrassing strand of white, jamming the traitorous hair under some ridiculous and instantly fashionable hat until he can go out and get the necessary supplies. _Why didn't you tell me?_ he'll ask Howard, indignant and defensive and disappointed for reasons that remain mysterious to Howard, as though it's humiliating to have been seen in his natural state and he expected Howard to shield him from this. _You could've warned me that I looked like a tit. I swear, sometimes you're so_ oblivious _, Howard!_

Howard will briefly regret the loss of his favourite brown as he sits on the sofa, one small eye on an episode of _Colobos the Crab_ that he knows by heart and the other on Vince curled up beside him, knees hugged against his chest, a towel draped over his shoulders and his hair clipped up on top of his head, coated in the thick, pungent muck that will shortly have him back in black.

But as Vince reaches out a hand across the cushions, hovering over and finally, cautiously settling on top of Howard's in silent daring, Howard can't bring himself to mourn too deeply. The brown will return soon enough, peeking out from behind that glossy, artfully constructed façade, no matter how much Vince tries to hide it. 

Vince's true nature will shine through, in the end. It always does.


End file.
